How Do I Love Thee?

by Nancy Moser

  It was my turn to put a finger to my lips.

  Happiness washed over her countenance and she faced me, taking my hands in hers. “Do you love him? Does he love you?”

  “I will not speak of such things.” I looked to my lap, but I felt her eyes upon me.

  “You do love him, I can see it! Oh, Ba, isn’t love grand? Papa always spoke against it as if it were some forbidden fruit that would do us harm, but I see nothing harmful in my love for Surtees. If I could run off today and be married, I would bolt out the door with my next breath.”

  “Why do you not do it?” I asked. “In spite of . . .”

  “Surtees has no money, and neither do I. You are the only one with funds, Ba. Do you not realize the blessing of your inheritance from Uncle Samuel?”

  I understood full well. “I never think of it, of money,” I said.

  “That is because you do not go out much. You do not need new dresses and bonnets, and so your money grows. I am forced to take Papa’s meager allowance and save nothing. It is up to Surtees to support us, and right now . . . he cannot.”

  I thought back six years to a moment when Bro stood before me, needing money to marry. I had offered some funds to him, but he had declined. And now, although I would have liked to offer my sister the same, I could not. My finances were a blessing that would allow me to marry, and though I loved my sister, I loved Robert even more. I would not abandon our dream for anything.

  Or anyone.

  “So,” she said. “Are you and Robert very close?”

  “We are dear friends.”

  “Are you considering marriage?”

  “No, no. You know me, Henrietta. I nearly faint at the very thought of confronting Papa. And you also know he would rather see me dead at his foot than yield the point: and he will say so, and mean it, and persist in the meaning.”

  She nodded, her face forlorn. “He loves us too much. Too hard.”

  I nodded my assent. Possession was not love. Robert’s written words came back to me: Will it not be infinitely harder to act than to blindly adopt his pleasure, and die under it? Who can not do that?

  I was the eldest. Although long an invalid, my sisters looked to me for wisdom—the wisdom of books and common sense, rather than that of the world, but wisdom still. I could not encourage Henrietta to stand up to Papa and risk all. Not when I was afraid to do as much.

  I laid my hand upon hers. “We must accept the blessings we have been given through the friendship of these two wonderful men. We must let it be enough.”

  She shook my hand away. “I do not want to accept clandestine meetings the rest of my life. I have wasted too many years already.”

  Henrietta was three years younger than I. If she considered her years wasted, then mine, at age forty . . .

  Suddenly, I saw the moment with complete clarity. There we were, two middle-aged spinsters, mourning our dependence, worrying over what our father would say to us like two little girls without confidence or maturity. It was absurd.

  Then, just as suddenly I found myself telling Henrietta, “I will talk to Papa.”

  She gasped. “Oh, would you, Ba? If he would accept Surtees as my husband, then maybe he would help us financially, at least until Surtees is established.”

  I will talk to Papa about us, about Robert and me. Again, as the eldest, I knew I had to go first, had to take the first fall for the sake of my siblings. Papa had always loved me most. It was time to take measure of that love, to test it for the good of all those living in this house.

  I did not tell Henrietta all this. It was best to let her think I was going to address her love, her wish to marry. If all went well, I would do so, but if not . . . I did not wish for her to know the extent of our plans. I had made such a point to Robert about keeping our love a secret. I would do so—until after I had talked to Papa. That one act would allow full truth to be revealed. That one act would allow me to burst through the door onto Wimpole Street and shout to the world, “I am Elizabeth Barrett, I am alive, and I am in love!”

  “When?” Henrietta asked. “When will you talk to him?”

  My heart flipped a double beat. “Today. When he gets home send him up to me. I will speak to him today.”

  May God help me.

  I heard Papa’s footsteps upon the stairs. The sound that used to fill me with joy now caused shivers to course up and down my spine.

  He entered my room, his brow stern, his hands behind his back. “Yes, Ba. What is it?”

  It was clear he had not had a good day at work. I should have instructed Henrietta to gauge his mood before telling him that I wished to see him. And yet, she was so eager for me to broach the subject of marriage, there would have been no guarantee she would have heeded such instruction.

  “I . . . I wish to speak to you about something.”

  “So I understand. Henrietta seemed quite adamant.”

  He took out his pocket watch, looked at it, then returned it to his pocket. And I knew—I knew—that I could not speak to him about any of it.

  My body responded to my decision and confirmed its wish to refrain from the stress. My breathing came in short bursts, and my heart beat so rapidly I felt light-headed. “I . . . I . . .”

  Papa came towards me. “Lie down, dear girl. I will not have you fainting on me.” He helped me to the sofa. “Wilson?”

  Wilson appeared in the doorway and with a look saw my need. She busied herself with a fan, supplying me a course of air.

  Papa headed for the door. “I’ll leave you, then.”

  “But . . .”

  “Obviously you are not well enough to have a discussion of any kind. Whatever it is will wait.”

  As he walked out, he nearly collided with Henrietta, who must have been listening from the stairs.

  “Watch yourself, girl,” he said gruffly. Then, with a flip of his hand in my direction, he told her, “Make yourself useful.”

  She rushed to my side. “Enough, Wilson. I’ll take over.”

  Wilson bobbed a curtsy and left us alone.

  Henrietta fluttered the fan furiously. “What happened? I tried to hear but—”

  I pushed her attention away angrily and sat upright. “Nothing happened. At his mere presence my heart, my lungs, my nerves . . . I thought I was stronger, but with the very inkling of confrontation I resort to the invalid again! I am a pitiful weakling. Where is my resolve, my strength, my determination?”

  “Locked away,” Henrietta said. “As is mine. Long ago our ability to stand up to Papa was banished to a dark room in our characters. Unavailable. Invisible.”

  “If it ever existed at all,” I said.

  She leaned her elbows to her knees and put her head in her hands. “Oh, Ba, whatever are we going to do? Are we truly doomed to remain here our entire lives?”

  I had no answers for her. Or for myself.

  “I let her down,” I told Robert the next day. “I let us down.”

  He comforted me as I had comforted Henrietta. “A lifetime of submission is not easily overridden, nor is a lifetime under tyranny.”

  I leaned my head against his chest, letting his arms encase me in their strong safety. “You spoke of going to Italy for a few years,” I said. “I think we should go. Away. Far away. Where Papa’s hands can’t reach us.”

  He pushed back to see my face. “Really? You agree to Italy?”

  “I’d agree to anything to be with you,” I said.

  “Then Italy it shall be.”

  I returned to his embrace. “You make the arrangements, Robert. You lead and I will follow.”

  Soon after Robert left, I found that the words bursting within me demanded release. And so, I penned another letter, saying more of what was in my heart.

  And now I must say this besides. When grief came upon grief and I lost Bro, I never was tempted to ask “How have I deserved this of God?” as sufferers sometimes do: I always felt that there must be cause enough . . . corruption enough, needing purification . . . weaknes
s enough, the need for strengthening . . . nothing of the chastisement could come to me without cause and need.

  But in this different hour, when joy follows joy, and God makes me happy through you . . .

  I cannot repress the “How have I deserved this of Him?” I know I have not—I know I do not.

  Could it be that heart and life were devastated then to make room for you now? If so, it was well done, dearest! They leave the ground fallow before the wheat.

  I paused and thought about Bro, the one other man I had ever loved with pure affection. What would he say about the words I had written? Knowing how much he returned my love, would he accept his sacrifice if it truly was instrumental in opening my heart to Robert’s love?

  As I would have died for him, Bro would have died for me.

  Perhaps did die for me.

  I pressed a hand against my chest, the fullness of blessings making my heart beat faster, but with no risk of faintness. For the blessings of love filled me with excitement, anticipation, and pure gratitude, elements abounding in strength.

  How odd I had received such a bounty, all at once, in this phase of my life.

  More words begged for release, and I took up my pen again.

  Other human creatures have their good things scattered over their lives, sown here and sown there, down the slopes, and by the waysides. But with me . . . I have mine all poured down on one spot in the midst of the sands! If you knew what I feel at certain moments, and at half-hours, when I give myself up to feeling freely and take no thought of red eyes. Knowing myself, I have wondered more than a little how it was that I could bear this strange and unused gladness without sinking as the emotion rose. I was incredulous at first, and the day broke slowly, and the gifts fell like the rain . . . softly; and God gives strength by His providence for sustaining blessings as well as stripes. Dearest . . .

  Dearest. Dearest.

  I adored Robert. He adored me. We wanted to marry. But each time I allowed myself to imagine the logistics of our plan, to even think about telling Papa . . . I was a coward. I had to share the gist of my misgivings with Robert. “Might it not be wiser, dearest, more prudent, for us to remain quietly as we are, you at New Cross, and I here, until next year’s summer or autumn?”

  With much drama he thrust an imaginary dagger into his chest and staggered backwards against the fireplace. “Oh, show me how to get rid of you!”

  “It is just a consideration,” I said.

  He stood straight and strong with the look of a man who had much to say. “Every day that passes before that day is one of hardly endurable anxiety and irritation, and the thought of another year of hope deferred— it’s altogether intolerable.” He put his hands upon his hips, his forehead furrowed. “Ba. No.”

  He was right. Of course. Again. This was not the first time we had volleyed these views between us. My fear against his determination. And I knew that delay would not ease the furor our marriage would cause within my family.

  His face softened. “We have nothing to gain by delay, and much to lose. Every minute that you are not mine, every hour . . .”

  I nodded. We had managed to meet for over a year without Papa finding out. And though it was tempting to continue to ply our good fortune, it would be reckless, and more than that, ungrateful to God’s protection for blessings already given.

  I offered him a smile of reconciliation. “We are standing on hot scythes, you and I, and because we do not burn our feet—by a miracle— we have no right to count on the miracle extending.”

  I nodded.

  He took my hand and pulled me to my feet, causing Flush to tumble to the floor. “Then let us go now! Right this very minute. Your father is out of the house, your sisters occupied. Tell Wilson to pack you a bag—” He rushed to my armoire and yanked the doors open, pulling a winter dress of black velvet into his arms. “Find me a bag and I will do it myself!” Suddenly he dropped the dress to the floor and took a step away from it. “On further thought . . . leave all these behind.” He took my hands and led me in a circle. “Come as you are and take me as I am, and together we will start anew.”

  Feeling slightly dizzy—or was I merely giddy at the thought of it all?—I stopped our circling and pulled him close for a kiss. “You tempt me, Mr. Browning.”

  “Only towards good things, Miss Barrett. Our love is the quintessence of all that is good.” He resumed our circling. “That I wish to rush towards our union is an attribute and far from folly.”

  Flush barked, confused by our dance. I began to let one of Robert’s hands go in order to comfort the pet, but Robert held it fast and drew me close. He turned my arm behind my back, locking us together. He looked into my eyes with the intensity that was yet another facet of his personality. “I adore you, Ba. I have no heart for more nonsense about when I can take your dearest self into my arms. If my love overflows the bounds and needs to prove itself, so be it. I will prove it again and again. I dedicate my lifetime in the proving. But let us move on with our plans. To remain in limbo is inextricable. To survive, we must move forward.”

  Forward was a fairly new concept for me. But one that continued to satisfy and entice.

  The house was full of wedding talk.

  Not my own.

  My aunt Jane Hedley—my mother’s sister—came to visit in July with her husband Bernard—my favourite uncle—and their daughter Constance. They lived in Paris but had traveled to London to make plans for Constance’s marriage to a rich man named John Johnston Bevin, whose height at over six feet was as massive as his wealth. Although they did not stay with us, they visited daily and used our drawing room as the center of their plans. As they chattered with my family about wedding gowns and flowers and suppers, I marveled that I did not envy any of it.

  I, who had never expected to marry, had not grown into adulthood dreaming of satin and walking down the aisle on my father’s arm.

  Perish the thought.

  And so, hearing my cousin discuss her plans did not negate the specialness of my own. To my mind, the wedding ceremony was just that—a ceremony for show. The vows Robert and I would exchange before God and a pastor would be enough. Our shared “I do” would echo through the heavens with as grand a sound as the mightiest church organ. The look upon our faces would make the presence of company unnecessary, and the final pronouncement as man and wife, under God, would own the scent of a thousand roses.

  That there would be no lavish wedding meal, no reception line to embrace family and friends, and no gifts (to admire or appall), was of no import. Rich foods would cause me harm, strong hugs would overwhelm, and gifts would make me feel beholden.

  I was set to do this thing simply, with honour and full pleasure.

  Constance was in the midst of a discourse on lilies of the valley versus lavender. “I do so love the scent of lavender best, but the daintiness of the—”

  Papa, who had not been a part of our discussion, entered the room with some papers. Surprisingly, he approached me. “Here,” he said. “You need to sign these.”

  “What are they?” I asked.

  Only then did Papa notice the Hedleys were present. “If you’ll excuse us a moment.”

  “Of course,” Uncle said.

  Papa angled his back to them just a bit and lowered his voice. “You remember that your uncle Samuel gave you an investment in a sailing ship.”

  I nodded. The income usually amounted to two hundred pounds per year. The other day Stormie had told me I had eight thousand pounds in that fund. Along with the allowance of fifteen pounds a month that Papa gave me . . . I knew I had enough money to support Robert and me upon our marriage.

  “I have determined it is time to transfer that investment to the Eastern Railroad.”

  I had never been on a train—nor a ship for that matter—but trains were far newer and from what I had heard, loud and dirty and . . .

  “The railroad, you say?” Uncle asked.

  Papa made a face, showing his regret that the others had hea
rd. He addressed Uncle Bernard. “I believe it to be a wise move. Do you think otherwise?”

  Uncle waved his hands. “No, no. I leave such investment in your capable hands. I’m sure the railroad is the way of the future.”

  Papa did not respond but placed the paper before me. “Sign here.” He handed me the pen, dipped in ink.

  Aunt Jane looked up from her discourse with Constance and said, “Is that your marriage settlement, my dear?”

  What? My hand flinched and I signed my name wrongly. “Oh no, I—”

  Papa snatched the paper from me. “Ba! Concentrate. Can you not even write your own name?” He took the pen, scratched out my mistake, blew on the paper, re-dipped the pen, and handed the document back to me. “Now, again. Carefully.”

  My hand still shook, but I managed to sign the paper.

  I was grateful when Papa left. Returning to my seat, Aunt looked concerned. “You’re pale, Ba. Are you feeling all right?”

  I feigned a smile and masked my frayed nerves by asking after the flowers.

  “Will they never leave?” Robert asked me. “How long does it take to plan a wedding, anyway?”

  I flicked the tip of his nose. “Months—or so it seems.”

  He glanced towards the open door. “But in our case we have good excuse, for we are not just planning a wedding, but an escape.”

  I heard voices from below. Ever since the Hedleys had been in town, Robert and I had been forced to curtail our usual meetings, and shorten the few we dared keep.

  “I know what I’d like to do,” he said, leaning over me, his face inches from mine. “I’d like to rush down the stairs and burst into the drawing room, my arms wide. ‘Excuse me? Excuse me, everyone? I have an announcement to make. Ba and I are—’ ”

  I kissed him quickly on the mouth, then pushed him away. “I think not.”

  “Why not?” he said. “Other people can marry, but we cannot? Where is the sense in—?”